


Wicked or Noble?

by Bloopy42



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket, All the Wrong Questions - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Kitlaf, Mystery, OTP Feels, Romance, Tied To A Chair, emily dickinson - Freeform, shameless poetry, vfd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 16:02:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14382099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloopy42/pseuds/Bloopy42
Summary: "Olaf knows."Kit Snicket's moments before and after leaving that fateful note at the VFD Headquarters' Party.





	Wicked or Noble?

Stubbing one’s toe is rarely pleasant. Even if you are someone who was born with no sensitivity in the lower half of your body, it is still often an inconvenience at best. For those of us who _can_ feel our toes, it is an experience that tends to incur much loud cursing and may bring a tear or two to the eye. When your phalange is first struck, however, there is a brief moment before the pain even arrives in which your body registers it has been hit and must await the forecasted misery. That moment is often worse than when your toe receives the full effect of the impact, because the time in which you are anticipating hurt that is positively imminent can be far more frightening. Once pain is there, it can be dealt with. While in suspense, we are helpless.

That’s exactly how Kit Snicket felt as she hastily scrawled two words on the tiny slip of paper she’d been fortunate enough to find on such short notice. Two words were all she needed. All she had time for. The toe had been hit, metaphorically of course, meaning she was certain grief lay not far ahead.

Kitchens during a large party tend to be the best places to go unnoticed, as they are the most frantic and simultaneously unsuspicious venues at any soiree. The people occupying them have much more important things to worry about than a woman not dressed as either a chef or a waiter occupying table space and leaving a folded note in a deviled egg. As she burst out through the swinging doors as quickly and unobtrusively as she’d come, Kit prayed. No, not prayed. _Willed._ She willed that Larry would understand the urgency of the message and deliver in an according fashion. She willed that it would travel swiftly through the colorful crowd of masqueraders. She willed that it would end in the hands it needed to. Lemony would know what to do.

Kit ran down the stairwell, skimming her leather-gloved hand down the banister in a rather Cinderella-esque manner--if Cinderella had been hurrying from the ball in fear of her life and had not misplaced either shoe. There would be no dancing, no dazzling gowns for Kit, but there was no room in her frenetic mind for disappointment.

_Wicked or noble?_

He had come to her not much earlier. He hadn’t knocked, a simple courtesy his manners had forgotten as they grew viler with each moment. She had sensed the transformation when it had begun, like a slow seeping curse that disintegrated the man she thought she knew so well. She had tried in desperation to carry on as though all were well, because if she didn’t, he might find out. He could _never_ find out.

But “never” was a lengthy term, used mainly in hyperbole. Everyone knows, deep down, that there is no such thing as “never”, just as there is no “forever”.

When he entered the small room she’d been bunking in, he was quiet. His silence should have been her first warning, as the man was near-incapable of entering a space without fanfare. He lurked at the door that he shut quietly behind him, waiting for her eyes to travel to him. She couldn’t help but admire the regal suit he had donned for the occasion, sporting an elegance that any other night she might have laughed warmly at. Instead, she could not shake the feeling that the dark attire resembled the physique of a raven’s, which, as any well-read person knows, constitutes a bad omen.

“I didn’t think you would come,” Kit spoke first, standing up to greet him face to face.

“I’m not one to miss a celebration,” He picked dirt from his fingernails, a habit he knew she detested.

“The event is upstairs,” replied Kit, colder than she needed to be. She nodded at the door, but the man took two steps closer to her in clear defiance.

“You’re not attending?” He arched his eyebrow.

“No, I…I’m not feeling well,” she lied.

“No? How are you feeling, then, if not _well_?” It was not something one with propriety said in response to another’s complaint of ailment, but the man had not come to sympathize. When Kit gave no answer, he chuckled, another impolite reaction to someone’s ill-being.

“Shall I guess?” He began to walk back and forth in front of her, like a starving lion pondering its prey. “Could it be… an uneasy sense of creeping dread? The flu? Guilt?”

“Guilt?” Kit repeated with a blink.

“Yes, guilt. If I’m not mistaken, it is the feeling that comes along with knowing you are wrong.”

“When have I been wrong?” She didn’t even bother to scoff at the irony that _he_ was trying to educate _her_ on the definition of a word.

“Perhaps you have been toying with the possibility that no group of people--no matter how noble or well read, or how secret their headquarters are--can extinguish the fires of the world. Perhaps you were wrong to think so.”

“VFD is not wrong,” but even as Kit said it, she had to look away. “Is that what _you’ve_ been thinking, Olaf?”

The Count did not reply. He glided over to the small collection of books occupying Kit’s bedside table. The bindings of each were worn and tearing, the covers paling with age. When he ran his fingers along one’s spine, Kit felt a shiver run up hers.

“Tell me again about the schism,” Olaf ordered quietly.

It was a conversation they had had before at a simpler period in their lives, when the meaning behind “schism” had little to do with them.

“Our organization was established to stop fires,” Kit’s words felt numb on her lips, as though she had recited them too many times for their meaning to have weight. “Eventually, some of the volunteers decided it was better to start them.”

“You once told me it began when you were too young to remember. How did you know which side was right?”

“ _Right_?” Kit erupted. “It doesn’t take a scholar to understand that it is noble to put out flames and wicked to ignite them! Figuratively _and_ literally speaking!”

“Would you say you have a fair sense of what is noble and what is wicked, overall?” He said in almost a purr.

Kit bit down on her tongue and felt her legs take her closer to Olaf. She did not touch him, but her eyes bore into him fiercely enough to connect. In their school days, they would often communicate nonverbally, as Kit’s habit of using the biggest words she could think of annoyed him to no end, and his inability to use the right words in the right places frustrated her.

“Olaf, where is this coming from?” She whispered. ”Just tell me.” Her command was weak and had no effect on his expression of stone.

“Answer my question.”

Kit took a breath.

“Yes. I believe I do.”

“Help me to understand, then,” Olaf growled. “Because don’t think I can’t see you all walking on eggshells around me. You think I’m unstable. You think I might turn.” He paused to eliminate the emotion from his voice. “So, help me see the difference between wicked and noble.”

“Olaf—“

“Stealing a valuable possession. Wicked or Noble?”

“W-wicked,” Kit said. “Of course, wicked.”

“Saving a life. Wicked or Noble?”

“Noble,” Her confidence was fluctuating.

“And murdering one’s parents with poison darts? Wicked or noble?”

The air in the room seemed to freeze. The world had become so deathly still that she could hear a tiny thumbtack roll from her dresser and drop onto the floor. He knew. He knew, and knew she knew. Nothing she said next would be adequate.

“That…perhaps out of context…I’d say…it depends on how you look at it.” She loathed that phrase.

“It _depends_ , does it?” Olaf snarled. “Then, shouldn’t all of those things _depend_? Saving a life can be wicked if you kill to do so, can’t it? Stealing can be noble if you’re…” He waved his hand airily. “What’s-his-name!”

“Robin Hood,” Kit corrected wearily.

“I knew that!” He was beginning to spit with rage. “See, Snicket? Nobility…treachery…they’re not real. At best those ideas pit people against each other, at worst they keep me— _us-_ from getting what we want.”

“You’re distraught,” Kit insisted. “It’s preventing you from seeing things clearly.”

“Actually, I think I see more clearly than I ever have,” said Olaf with a faint smile. “One last question. Avenging one’s parents. Doing whatever it takes to see that they did not die in vain. Wicked, or noble?”

Kit was done playing the malicious game. She balled her leather hands into tight fists and held them firmly at her side while narrowing her eyes at a man who no longer knew good from bad. 

“Have you come to kill me, Olaf?” She asked steadily.

Olaf’s lips curled, but he turned his head away from her. Kit could almost hear the cogs in his mind whirring like a breaking machine, and though he did not say it, she knew he had not yet made up his mind.

“Has Beatrice arrived?” He sufficed as a reply.

“You will not lay a finger on her!” Kit stormed within an inch of his face, a distance she had been before, both when angry and happy with him. Suddenly, they were closer than they had been in a long time, and Kit fought to keep her menacing demeanor from evaporating.

“Did you know all along? That it was her?” His tone shifted, like he’d been wounded but was struggling to conceal it. “Kit…”

He reached out suddenly towards her cheek, and before Kit could comprehend that the gesture was gentle, loving even, she had already flinched away from his touch. In her blatant fear of him, he had his answer.

“I see,” Olaf said slowly, retracting his arm. Kit thought she saw a flash of longing in his eyes before they were clouded over with darkness once more.

“It was necessary,” She pleaded. “You must understand.”

“You can tell yourself that for as long as you like, and you still wouldn’t believe it,” he said hoarsely. “I know you better than that. Your brothers may be stuck in their ways, but you’ve always been more like me. Ambiguous.”

“I am _not_ like you!” shouted Kit, desperately wanting every syllable to be true.

“Fair enough,” concurred the man with a tight jaw. “It seems our destinies may be more at odds with each other than we thought,” The word _destiny_ felt like a sting from a bee. “But you cannot truthfully say that you didn’t question VFD just as much as I did that night at the opera.”

“I couldn’t argue with the greater-good. How could I?” Kit felt hot water stinging her eyes. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Ah, tears. A nice touch,” He said flatly. He extended one bony finger to retrieve the drop that was escaping down her cheek.  

“Stop it!” admonished Kit, swatting his hand away. “I’m not one of your actor friends!”

“Too bad. Perhaps if you were, you’d be a lot more convincing.”

Rope slid out from the Count’s sleeve like a vexed viper, and though she struggled against his attack, Kit was bound against the desk chair in a matter of moments. Olaf coiled the rope around her an unnecessary number of times, and tied the knot with care and ease. He could have gagged her, but he seemed to believe she would not scream. All she could do was scoot the chair closer to him, and glare with the force of all the fires that had been started since their once-noble organization fell into dissent.

“If you’ll excuse me,” He said with a sickly smile. “I have a party to get to. I’ll deal with you after.”

“You despicable man,” Kit spat. “How could you betray us this way?”

This time when Olaf grabbed her, it was nothing but vicious. He pulled her and the chair she was attached to up to his eye level and Kit could smell the rage on his breath.

“ _You_ …betrayed… _me!”_ He dropped her back to the floor. Even after he composed himself, Olaf’s fury had not dissipated. In a sinister murmur, he added, “I’m going to make you all suffer the way you made me suffer. If that makes me a villain, so be it.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Kit said softly.

“And my family didn’t have to die,” Olaf sneered.

“We’ve all lost people we love. A noble person does not let that turn them to wickedness! Please, Olaf…don’t.”

“And why not?”

Kit opened her mouth, then closed it. It was a subtle gesture which was intended to convey a bold sentiment, something along the lines of… _Because I love you. I love you, and I will be forced to stop loving you if you continue down this villainous road._ Whether or not the man understood her coded expression was not obvious, but she willed it to be so.

He walked behind her chair to test his knot one last time. He stopped just before the door, looked over his shoulder at the trussed up woman, and spoke in a whisper, “You had too much faith in me.”

The Count swung open the door and slammed it shut behind him without another word. Kit could hear as he barricaded the door with large furniture from other dormitories to ensure she would not escape. While she listened to his grunting and maneuvering, she skidded her chair up against the door and pressed her ear to it. If she could hear his heavy breathing, he could surely hear her.

“’Hope is the thing with feathers,’” She began quoting the words of another. “’That perches in the soul. And sings the tune without the words. And never stops at all.”

The pushing stopped as Olaf became still on the other side of their divider.

“’And sweetest in the Gale is heard, and sore must be the storm…that could abash the little Bird that kept so many warm,” Kit closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cold wood.

She heard the swipe of a match and the sizzle of a small, but poignant flame.

“’I’ve heard it in the chilliest land, and on the strangest sea,” She choked out. As she wondered if these would be her final words, she heard the sharp inhale of the ambiguous Count.

“’Yet, never, in Extremity,’” Olaf’s voice rang out, muffled and hollow. “’It asked a crumb of me.’”

Kit smiled through her anguish. He had not forgotten, after all. No matter the man he had become, the man he had been was not lost. She heard the match go out, and put a hand on the door. A soft scratch from the other side told her he was doing the same. Kit knew she should be saving her hope for the situations in dire need of hope—escaping the room and successfully warning her friend and brothers, for instance—but in that moment she only wished that the villain outside was remembering that walk many years ago, where she first read him that very poem under a tree that rained crow feathers in the Village of Fowl Devotees. No, not wished. Willed.

They shared mere seconds that felt like eternity in which they tried to love one another from two opposite sides of a closed door. Then, when they realized it was not possible, they allowed reality to sink back into their foresight. Kit listened as Olaf’s footsteps retreated down the hall, slow at first, then speeding up the further he got.

There was no time to lose now, though so much had already been lost. Treacherous as he was, Olaf had made the mistake (that may or may not have been a mistake) of not disposing of Kit then and there. Nevertheless, she suspected he would not hesitate upon his return. His confliction on whether or not to kill her was apparent in his knot, which was made low enough on the back of the chair for Kit to just barely reach. It was not easy, but she had been trained her whole life for daring escapes.

When she was free of her binds, Kit flew to the window and thrust it open. The searing breeze of the Mortmain Mountains hit her hard as she stared, not down into the black abyss below as most would do when faced with a large height, but _up_ at the windows and walls that comprised the headquarters above her. It was a precarious spot for a safe place, though she had never realized it until confronted with the fact that she would have to scale it. Meaning, “somehow climb the slippery building until she reached the right floor”.

Had she known she was in for trouble, Kit would have packed better. As it was, she only had a small selection of inventions that could come in handy, including her toothbrush. A grappling hook of her own design that was stuffed beneath her mattress would have to do. As the mechanism shot out into the dark, she was reminded of the periscope she had built not too long ago on the _Queequeg_ , an underwater vessel she had once longed to captain. Kit tried in vain to shake her head free of the memories that were suddenly invading like a stampede of fire ants. She usually had no trouble focusing like her life depended on it when it actually did not, but when her life _did_ depend on her concentration, it was difficult to rally.

The feeling of flying as the mechanism pulled her up towards the balcony reminded her of parachuting with only a bed sheet. The feeling of the snowy air reminded her of training eagles at the very tip of the mountain. The feeling of remorse reminded her of…

Kit gripped the railing on the balcony and swung over the ledge, sucking the grappling hook back into its device as she broke into a run.

Through the windows she could see the party in full swing, but willed them not to see her. Her throat felt tight when she did not spot the woman in a beautiful dragonfly costume amongst the frivolity. She willed that Beatrice was simply fashionably late, and not already in Olaf’s clutches.

Kit hurried into a door that led to a hallway, then another door that led to another door that led to the door to the kitchen.

 _Olaf knows_. She wrote in a flourish.

Then, she fled. As she had willed, the taxi was where she had left it outside. She willed that it had enough gas to make it to the bottom of the mountain. She willed that her chest only hurt because of some bad peppers she’d eaten earlier and not because her heart was splitting. Kit willed, as she drove through the icy winds that were so much colder than the tears she was rubbing from her cheek, that she would not forget herself. That she would never question morality. The world was too wicked not to have a side, and she had chosen hers.

The final thing she willed was for Beatrice to live.


End file.
